


A Sword of Sharpened Steel

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her father's only child, and Belle cannot even inherit his kingdom. So she trains and battles instead, but when her cousin--the new king--nearly dies in battle, she makes a deal with Rumpelstiltskin to give the kingdom she loves a last glimmer of hope, and perhaps to finally earn her own freedom, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Everyone in Anglia knew the story of the time their king had called Rumpelstiltskin and struck a deal, a deal which ended in tragedy with little reward. For years afterward, mothers and nurses terrified their children with the tale, warning them that if they did not do their chores or eat their beans or brush down their horses, that Rumpelstiltskin would come for them too, just as he had come for the queen and the goat shepherd’s boy. Well, he’d taken the goat shepherd’s boy with him, a tiny bundle wrapped in sackcloth, and left the queen dead, swaddled in satin sheets that were damp and red with blood.

_A baby boy--any baby boy in all of Anglia will do--and in exchange I shall save your oh-so-precious heir_.

The king searched the kingdom for a suitable boy, newly born, one not even given a name yet. His child, his only child, was suffocating inside of his dying queen. The midwives refused to tell him that both lives were hopeless, but the king knew better, knew the midwives were afraid for their own lives, too, of punishment for their failure.

The shepherd’s wife had two boys to remember her dead husband by, and they were squalling and strong, and she loved her queen even more than her king. So when Ruth stood among her goats in the fields, one boy slung on her back and the other held out as offering to the Dark One himself, the deal was struck.

And the child slid out of the queen’s womb with ease, that precious heir. It took the rest of the queen with it though, as all the blood came too-- _so much blood, unnaturally so_ , the midwives whispered later.

Rumpelstiltskin, so the story goes, giggled while he watched the last bit of life leave the queen, and doubled-over in full-blown laughter when he saw the king’s face contort into rage at the first glimpse of what he had acquired.

As promised, the heir was alive--alive and useless, a baby girl.

.....

Nineteen years later, Princess Belle marched into the entrance chamber, helmet under her arm and a sword that was far too large for her petite frame gripped hard in her hand, while her own smaller sword remained strapped at her side. In front of the empty throne sat a massive table of splintered oak. A few of the men who sat around it had graying beards and deepening wrinkles, and the other men, the young ones, had their arms in slings, or no arms at all.

_The price of war_ , Belle reminded herself.

At the head of the table sat the only whole, hale, young man, with black hair and a matching beard that was only beginning to grow in. Belle went right to his side, but when Gaston  stood and opened his arms for his armor-clad warrior woman, she knelt on the dirty tile instead, held the sword up to him in both hands. Her helmet clattered to the floor, drowning out the collective gasp from the men, who thought they had seen all plights that war had to offer. This was an unexpected loss.

“Cousin,” she began, and inhaled deeply. When the pricking behind her eyes finally halted, Belle looked up at him, focusing in particular on his forehead, and said, “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

“Long live the king.” An echoed murmur throughout the room.

The words were out, and Belle allowed herself to take another breath, and to meet Gaston’s eyes. They were brown and stricken with fear. His jaw hung open, lips grasping for whatever words were expected of him.

_Take the king’s sword_ , she mouthed.

His large, soft hands looked unfamiliar, and somehow wrong upon the hilt of what had been her father’s sword. It was simple steel, worn down in the various places where generations of kings had held it for hundreds of years. Emeralds had been inlaid upon it, decades ago, but Belle’s father’s father had removed them in disgust, sold them to a traveling merchant to buy his men better armor.

_A woman cannot wield the king’s blade_ , her father had told her as a child, when he caught her lugging its weight around the castle. But he had given her a sword of her own, and one for every year after that, to accommodate her ever-growing size and strength.

So Belle chose to admire Gaston’s hands around the hilt of her father’s sword, noted how well they fit in comparison to hers. “May you slay well our enemies and protect our kingdom.” The words said to every king, once handed his sword. The words said _your enemies, your kingdom_ , according to tradition, but Belle decided that for her cousin and betrothed, _our_ was rather more suitable.

Belle stood up, took the chair to Gaston’s right, the chair always left vacant in her absence, and he sank beside her on shaking legs, sword cradled in his lap. Hair sprung from her simple braid and hung in Belle’s face, and when she pushed it back with a mailed fist, a trail of blood was left across her forehead. She realized the eyes of the men at the table, her father’s--no, _Gaston’s_ advisors--were on her, and not their new king.

“The ogres lost three to every one of our men. I daresay the tide is turning in our little war,” she said.

Across from Belle sat Sir Breven, her father’s oldest friend and advisor. “And the king?” he tried gently. His expression was the softest, kindest Belle had ever seen it; usually he wore an angry scowl.

“Fell at the hands of the ogres,” she said, with a small, sad shrug. “I burned his body upon the field, after the battle, as per custom. Dispensed his armor to the men who kept his body safe from ogre scavengers. They will treasure it always.”

“It is custom for the new king to burn the body of the old,” Sir Cleon said. He was one of the younger men, his hand chopped off at the wrist a year before and relegated to council member for his political ambition.

Gaston finally spoke. “Belle is his daughter. Her actions were entirely appropriate.” And the other man bowed his head in deference. Gaston set a hand on his cousin’s knee. “And the survivors?”

“I sent them home to be with their families. We shall bestow the sword more formally sometime in the near future, once the grieving has slowed.”

“Will they accept a king who has not yet led them in battle?” Sir Cleon again.

Belle felt Gaston’s hand tighten around her knee, and opened her mouth to respond, but Breven intervened first. “ _King_ Gaston has not yet led a battle because he was the _only_ heir. None of us were willing to risk him by putting him up against the ogres. The old king least of all.”

“He will do battle, and we shall celebrate his victory with his formal bestowal, of course,” Belle decided. “With myself at his side, during the battle, naturally.”

“I do not wish to endanger my queen,” Gaston said, tone urgent, but nearly all of the men at the table immediately dismissed him with a shake of their heads.

“I am not your queen yet, cousin.” But she softened the blow of her words by removing one of her steel gloves and caressing Gaston’s hand.

“Ah,” said Brevan. “That is something that should soon be rectified.” He turned to Gaston. “Your marriage to the king’s daughter would truly seal your claim.”

“He’s my father’s nephew. Is that not enough?” Belle asked, voice rising.

The advisors, old and young, gave each other uneasy glances, while Belle and Gaston just looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve blood on your face,” he told her.

“That’s not surprising.”

“Are you all right?” 

“Your concern is touching, but right now we’ve more important matters to attend to.” As an afterthought, she added, “Your Grace.”

Sir Cleon cleared his throat. Whatever the council had been silently arguing, they had come to a consensus. “There are concerns that, without an imminent marriage, there are those who will try to put the princess upon the throne, in your place.” He nodded at Gaston.

Belle stood up. “Like you?” She began to pace around the table, her armor clanking with every step, while her sword swung at her side. “Does every man in Anglia wish to set me up as their puppet queen and rule for the unfit woman?” She could hear her own exhaustion and suddenly became conscious of the soreness of her limbs and mind. She sighed. “No. I shall marry Gaston and support his claim as the rightful heir.” Her hand found its way upon her cousin’s shoulder, and this time it was her mailed fist.

Brevan snorted. “As if any of that surprises us. Do you then, princess, give us permission to begin planning your wedding?”

Her glare was enough to inspire terror into ogre generals, but not this man who’d taught her how to properly hold a sword. She grit her teeth. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

He smiled, wide and genuine despite his princess’s obvious anger. “Good. We shall have it after the sword-bestowal ceremony. Should be a decent celebration, pick up the people’s morale.”

The rest of the council grumbled their assent.

“Well, if you’re all happy with how the day has been settled, I shall take my leave of you.” Belle picked her helmet up, brushed off imaginary dust that had not had time to settle. “Gaston?” she called, as she started from the room, up the winding staircase in the corner.

And he followed Belle from the room, nearly nipping at her heels like an obedient hound. No one had been able to prevent the princess from being unchaperoned and alone with men before, and they certainly were not going to prevent her now.

.....

Belle had the bedroom of a soldier, not a princess. A narrow mattress upon a rickety wooden frame sat in one corner of her chamber, and a tiny wardrobe in the other. The stone walls were bare of any decorations, and the only light provided by a small slit, fashioned for shooting arrows from while avoiding the enemy’s arrows oneself. A wooden tub was a new addition, filled to the brim with water. She eyed the tub longingly, began to unstrap and strip off her armor.

Without having to be asked, Gaston averted his eyes and turned to face the door. “Are you all right?” he asked again. “Surely you need time to grieve?”

“A prince of Anglia has no time for grief, surely you know that. Battles to be fought, always. And apparently a wedding,” Belle said, as she shimmied out of her steel leggings.

“Do you dread it as much as you seem to?”

“I am doing it for the sake of the realm, _cousin_. As are you, there’s no pretending that.” She put one leg into the water, and then another. Her eyes squinted and her nose wrinkled as she slowly lowered herself into the tub. “God’s blood. Nothing worse than a lukewarm bath, is there?”

Gaston took this as his cue to turn back around to face his betrothed. Only her head and shoulders were visible above the tall bathtub. “I like you most when you’re like this.”

“Like what? Naked and refusing to mourn my father?” Belle scoffed, attempting to untangle her braid. The grime and blood from her body rose to the top of the water, turning its clear depths a murky brown.

The new king rolled his eyes. “No. Not like _that_. Not like _this_ , either. I like when you’re just a silly girl complaining over her bath. Not hard and bloodied and forever with your haunches raised and teeth bared, ready for battle.”

“You should marry a real woman then, not me.”

“Do you so wish you were a man?” Gaston asked her, though he already knew the answer.

“Every day.” For a moment, Belle disappeared underwater. When she came up, the blood had washed away from her face and her chestnut hair was wet and streaming. “Now more than ever. But I suppose we shall rule well together, shall we not, your Grace?”

Now it was Gaston’s turn to pace, and he did so, back and forth across Belle’s small room, the wooden floor creaking underneath him. “Not if I die in my very first battle.” He put his face in his hand. “King of Anglia, and I am still a green boy of eighteen.”

“Not your fault. My father’s, compensating for failing to father a son of his own. You know that.” A hint of sympathy tinged her voice. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For the sake of the kingdom?”

“Always for the sake of the kingdom.” Belle vanished beneath the water again, and when she did not immediately reappear, Gaston knew she wanted to be alone at last.


	2. Chapter Two

They would dine and die underneath the stars, that night. For days since the last battle and the old king’s death, servants and soldiers alike had been hammering together tables and chairs outdoors, setting them up along the plains nearly a league from the castle. Anglia had always been known for its rolling hills of fresh green grass that grew and thrived in all weather, even the harshest of cold winds. But now much of it was gone, burned by the Anglians themselves.

“It’s a pity,” said Gaston, as he and Belle strode along to measure the progress of the preparations, a warm breeze blowing in their faces on an unusually pleasant day. Whenever they passed someone at work, they gave them short nods in response to constant rainbow of bows and curtseys. “We set fire to so much good land for the sake of what?”

“For the sake of freeing the souls of our brothers-in-arms from the earthly prisons of their rotting corpses.” Belle gave him a sideways glance. “You know this.”

“It seems wasteful, that’s all. And a depressing spot for a celebration.” Where there had perfect pasture, there was now ruin. Tufts of dry, brown, burnt grass stuck up here and there across the field of blackened soot and dirt. Trees were sparse in Anglia, but in this expanse of field there grew one, solitary, tall, and long since dead. Its dark branches etched patterns across the blue sky, and offered Belle and Gaston no shade from the glare of the sun.

“The fire also gets the stench of ogre out. Besides, it’s good luck to feast before a battle on a battlefield where we’ve proven our strength already.” Belle paused, took a moment to lean against the tree. “Armor is damn hot when one’s not fighting in it.”

“Must you wear armor on a simple walk?” Gaston asked her, although, at his cousin’s insistence, he was clad in heavy steel, too.

_Get used to the feel of it_ , she told him days ago. _You’ll thank me for it later_.

“Yes. Especially to set a good example for you.”

“In any case, after the feast I will make sure to plant new grass on these plains. And you won’t burn so much land without my permission, next time,” Gaston told her, decisively.

“Good for the land and the people, but it might anger the gods.”

He considered that, then replied, “The gods will smile upon a king who has pleased his people.”

A small, rare smile sprouted on Belle’s face, and she punched her cousin lightly in the shoulder. “You might not be such a bad king, after all. But first I’ve got the war to win. Then your grass-growing, people-pleasing, and peace-making can thrive. Some of the council might not give you much credit for it, but you know a thing or two more about ruling than I do.”

At the sight of Belle’s playful smirk, Gaston could not help but to grin in return, despite his nervousness for all that lay ahead. “Queen of my armies.”

“Speaking of. One of my scouts returned this morning, with news on the ogres. They retreated and have built a little encampment in Roan Valley. They’ve even set up tents. Likely still licking their wounds. Perfect opportunity to force an encounter tomorrow.” Belle held her head high, eyes trained on the horizon in the direction of the valley. “Try not to be too scared, Gaston.”

He inhaled deeply, and the foul reek of the smoky remains of their land reminded him of the important struggles ahead. “A first brave thing,” he muttered, and grabbed Belle’s hand in his.

Her smile was gone but she did not pull her hand away.

.....

The sun set in an array of violent violets and sea greens. As the day had been, so was the night--not a cloud in the sky. The stars overhead glittered brighter as the sky grew darker, while beneath them the men and women of Anglia feasted on mutton and fowl, while the sickly sweet smell of good mead floated through the air, dizzying the minds of even those who did not partake in the numbing beverage. It ran from wooden barrels into mugs and bowls, any vessel considered suitable for drinking. 

Belle merely sipped at hers, tugging uncomfortably at the dress that she had finally been prevailed upon to wear. It was a pristine white linen, save for at its bottom hem that continued to drag along the ground, with long flowing sleeves lined with silver thread. The matching corset felt restrictive, although she had insisted to her maid that the laces be pulled no tighter than her waist could accommodate. Her hair hung in loose curls, wayward as ever despite her best efforts. Still, she supposed, she looked every bit a queen, at least in comparison to her usual garb. But old habits were hard to break, and underneath her gown, where no one could see, she wore her worn boots of old, cracked leather. And for all to see, most importantly her soldiers in attendance who had so often barely survived the last battle, Belle wore her sword-belt strapped around her hips, its hilt shining dangerously in the starlight. Gaston sat beside her, in fine breeches of black silk with a matching tunic, ran through with silver thread, to match his betrothed. The sword at his side was a new one from the forge--he would not wear the king’s sword again until he was officially bestowed with it, during their wedding after the coming battle. For now, this fresh steel would suffice.

They were a merry bunch, the Anglians, knowing that it was better to celebrate the coming battle than to mourn. People talked and shouted and laughed, and a few fell over singing the drinking songs they’d known since childhood. But when their Princess Belle rose to her feet, they cloaked themselves in silence, and settled in their long benches amiably. When she began to speak, she did not raise her voice, and still her people listened.

“Tonight, my-brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, we remember our king, who died on this field, defending all of us from the plague of the ogres. Though what we lost was dire, our victory was great. My father would be proud of us, happy to have given his life for the sake of all of Anglia. He slew countless ogres that day, and on the morrow we shall slay countless more!” Her voice rose. “Tomorrow, we shall be led by a new man, a new king! Although he has seen little of war and death, he is a brave man, and terrifying with a blade in his hand. He has even bested me in the practice ring, once or twice.” _Not entirely a lie_ , she reminded herself. “Now, stand for our new king, my fearless cousin, King Gaston!”

The crowd got to their feet, holding their drinks high in the air. When Gaston stood up as well, standing beside Belle, she entwined her fingers with his in a symbol of unity and raised them both above their heads. Their people roared, brought their drinks to their lips, and hooped and hollered and cheered for their new king and almost-queen, and the beacon of hope that these young, beautiful people seemed to promise them. And there was blood to be shed soon, and there were bellows for that too. 

Finally all of the voices came together in a single, mounting chant of, “Long live the king and queen!”

Even Belle, wary and alert, did not hear the ogres coming.

.....

The ogres came upon them, creeping through the shadows of the hills. Few of them had survived the last battle, but smaller numbers made for an easy surprise, lessened the chance of one of their own giving them all away. The Anglians--loud and drunk on joy and bloodlust--were a simple target, even for the ogres.

They fell on the outer reaches at first, away from the fires and the soldiers. Weaponless peasants, mouths agape in silent screams when they saw their own deaths reflected in the ogres’ black eyes. Those who did manage a shriek or two were quickly silenced by a blade across their throats, the warnings smothered by the cheers from the center of the fold.

Ogres were not as large and foreboding as the tapestries and storybooks liken them to be. They lumbered, yes, upon long-limbs corded with sharp muscles that no human could possess, and their grimy fangs grew from their jaws in gory scowls--but in the dark, they were shadows of tall humans, perhaps.

Finally, a soldier’s cry was heard above the din, and the ugly visage of an ogre flashed into the firelight as his sword was driven straight into the soldier’s heart. “Ogres!” he howled, through a mouthful of his own blood, broken body clattering to the ground. The rest of the ogres halted their sneakiness and emerged from the dark, rushing the men and women in the midst of their chanting and celebrations. Some of the Anglians ran, screaming, and were struck down immediately. Most stood, and drew their swords--they never went without them--and Belle was with them.

With hasty, deft hands, she tied the skirt of her gown in a knot above her knees, knowing better than to give her legs a chance to tangle themselves in it at a crucial moment. She looked to Gaston--his sword was raised before him, Belle noted, though he watched her for some sort of direction.

“Stay near me!” she yelled, voice straining above the screeches of parrying swords and dying children.

And Belle leapt into the fray of her people against the ogres, sword singing, with Gaston right behind her. She even had a passing thought of pride in him, her young cousin who was king.

.....

By the end of the skirmish, Belle’s new gown was seeped in blood, a mix of crimson and darker, blackened life-blood from the bowels of ogres and men alike. The ogres were slain across the field, bodies mixed in amongst her people. The sun crested the horizon, the sky as vivid red as the ground she walked upon.

“Gaston!” Her cry was thin and weak, all threads of hope torn from it. When her father had fallen, Belle had set her jaw in a grim line and accepted the blow from fate, but not _this_. “Gaston!” She saw a familiar face in the distance, and stumbled his way.

“My lady.” Breven bowed somberly at her approach, his face full of loss. He gestured to a long cut on her shoulder. “You’re wounded. Let one of the healers--”

“No! It’s nothing, shallow and nothing. Have you seen him?”

He winced. “No, princess, but we are all searching for him, for any of the wounded before we start a new fire.”

She shook her head. “No. No fires today.” Panting and bloody and lost. “We must find Gaston. We must find the king.”

Together the survivors picked through the bodies, discarding the ogres in disgust. Their own were divested of weapon and armor, their bodies handled with honor and reverence, leaving them where they fell, according to the custom. The wounded were taken to the castle on quickly-made stretchers, the planking carved haphazardly from the feasting tables.

“Milady!” a woman called to Belle, and she sprinted toward him. 

He stood beside a fallen ogre, and Gaston’s broken body sprawled underneath. Despite the weight atop him, Belle could see his chest rise and fall, but slowly, too slowly. She looked down at the woman. Her gnarled hands still gripped a sword, her body bent and hunched with age, and Belle admired her in that moment, admired her strength and hardiness, for she must have had these qualities, to survive so long in Anglia. 

“Can you help me?” Belle pleaded, and grabbed the legs of the ogre. The old woman took his arms, and together they heaved him off of their dying king. A wound too near to his heart was caked in brown blood. Stabbed and then crushed. Belle collapsed beside him on her knees, glanced up again at the woman. “Get help.”

Gaston’s eyes shuttered closed, and Belle could see his pulse nearly leaping from his neck. She shook him gently, and he remained still, so she shook him again, this time harder.

“Belle,” he exhaled. His eyes fluttered open. “How did I do, my first battle?”

“Marvelous,” and she kept the sob from rising in her throat. “You will be a good king.” She hoped that saying the words aloud would somehow make them true.

.....

They placed him on the table in the entrance hall, knowing not twist his body up and around the challenge of the stairs. Every healer left in the kingdom hovered above him, poking and prodding. Belle had ripped off the remaining sleeve of her gown, and Gaston bit down on it between his teeth, to stop him from biting off his own tongue instead. She stood nearby, pacing back and forth, and Sir Breven with her.

“Please, princess.” He offered her a mug. “Lavender tea, to calm yourself.”

“No, no.” She pushed his hand away, and the mug shattered into pieces on the floor. Blue eyes wild with fear, she grabbed her chief advisor by his collar. “Don’t you understand,” she hissed. “He’s the only heir. Without him, Anglia will fall.”

A healer approached her, his shaking hands clasped in front of him. _Young, far too young for all this_ , Belle thought, then motioned for him to speak.

“Your Grace. The--the king--the wound is full of rot--and--and it’s spreading. He has a day, maybe two, before it reaches his heart.”

Belle took a deep breath. “What can be done?” But she could smell the rotting from across the room, and she knew the answer.

“Make him comfortable, ease his pain. No medicine in all the kingdoms will save him now.” The healer stared at his feet--anything to avoid the princess’s look of terror.

“We--we need an heir. We need a king.” Now her hands were trembling, and she bunched her skirt into her hands, trying to still them. She stared at Breven. “What do we do? Anglia will never support myself alone.” She gasped, “I’ll do anything to save him. I truly will.”

An strange, high-pitched voice that Belle was certain she’d never heard before rang out throughout the chamber. “Anything, dearie? Well perhaps we can make a deal of some sort, eh?”


	3. Chapter 3

The man lounged in the royal throne of Anglia as though he himself were king. Cross-legged, leaning back, fingers dancing on the wooden arms of the rather simple chair. He wore leather breeches with matching boots that laced up to his knees, and a velvet vest of deep maroon. His skin, tinged with green and gold, shimmered in the candlelight. A small man, quick and slight, but his presence seemed to fill the room.

Belle’s tired arms drew her sword without even thinking. “And who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” She expected to hear the steel of the few men around her, feel them draw closer and tighten around this strange intruder. To her dismay, her men had frozen where they stood, simply staring at the man on the throne. Not discouraged, Belle took a few steps closer, sword raised. It, too, was still coated in a thick layer of blood.

“You’ve never heard of me, dearie? Odd that, considering the circumstances of your birth. Gotten bigger in the nineteen years since I saw you last, haven’t you?” He bared his teeth at her in a sickening smile, and Belle wondered briefly if he could breathe fire, too, so like a dragon he seemed with vicious fangs and scales for skin.

She could feel herself pale and the goosebumps that rose upon her bared flesh as the realization hit her, harder than an ogre’s blow. “You’re _him_ ,” she hissed. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

He leapt from her dead father’s throne, bowed low to the floor with a flourish. “At your service, princess.”

Before Belle knew what was happening, he had her hand in his grasp--the hand that was not brandishing the sword--and was in the process of bringing it to his lips. “Get away from me!” she growled, ripping her fist away from the Dark One and swinging her sword at his neck.

He batted it from him as he would a particularly irritating fly, and when Belle attempted a second strike, this one faster than the other, Rumpelstiltskin tore the blade from her and threw it to the floor. If anything, his smirk grew wider. “Ah ah ah. Come now, dearie. You don’t want to destroy your once chance at saving your kingdom’s precious _heir_ , now do you?” He giggled and clapped his hands. “Not that you even could. Destroy me, that is.”

“We do not deal with murderers,” Belle said, the words spat from her lips in disgust. Her right hand flexed--it felt empty, naked without her sword in it, as if she was missing a significant piece of clothing, or a limb.

Rumpelstiltskin’s expression was one of mock offense, eyebrows raised with a theatrical pout to match. “Murderer? Me?” He fixed his black gaze onto Breven, several feet behind Belle. “And what sorts of stories have you been filling her pretty little head with?”

Breven opened his mouth to answer, but Belle was already in the middle of her fierce retort. “The truth. About how _you_ killed my mother. Broke your deal to save us both.”

He shook his head. “What an _interesting_ way to tell the tale, for I believe the deal was to save you--nothing was ever said about the queen herself. The king only had his regrets when he realized that his _heir_ was not to his liking.” A few steps in Belle’s direction, but she refused to back away. “I believe that was _you_ , dearie.” He shrugged, raised his palms in a gesture of hopelessness. “Now, enough of these old deals. They leave a stale taste in my mouth. Nothing like the sweet flavor of desperation I taste now.” His tongue, pink and lizard-like, swept across his thin lips. Again, he turned to Breven. “That is why you called me, is it not, Sir Knight?”

Belle swept around, turning to her chief advisor. “ _You called him_?”

Although Breven had always been older than her, nearly as old as Belle’s father, with deep battle scars and gray hair slowly fading to white, never before had he looked so _old_ , so worn, as if a strong wind could knock him down forever. “I did, my lady,” he said. He motioned to Gaston, limp on the table--the healers had all fled at Rumpelstiltskin’s appearance--and continued, “We must save him.”

“And you think evil magic is the way to do it?”

Breven nodded. “You heard the healers. It is the only way.”

Belle returned to her cousin’s--her betrothed’s--side. His skin was grayer and duller than storm clouds, and the brown-and-yellow pus--that killing rot that would reach his heart--leaked through the neatly-applied bandage in a putrid stain. His brow was slick with sweat, and his lips trembled, as if overwrought with unspoken words. Her hand slid along his once-strong jawline, down to his neck, to feel the wavering pulse that uneasily clung to life. Even in those few seconds, Belle could feel it slipping farther and farther away. She kept her eyes on Gaston--poor, dying Gaston--when she managed to make herself ask, “And what is your price, Rumpelstiltskin?”

“My price...is _you_.”

“No!” Breven roared.

And Belle looked up, to see Rumpelstiltskin long, reptilian finger pointed right at her. She rose from Gaston’s side, and glared at the Dark One.

Moments passed, five, then ten, and finally Rumpelstiltskin cleared his throat. “This is the part where you faint in horror, dearie. Or are you slightly hard of hearing?”

Belle cocked her head, almost as if in concern for the Dark One’s mental state. “I am no bargaining chip. What misimpression did we give you to believe that I was?”

He wagged a finger at her, and had the audacity to _wink_. “Ah, so we have a witty little girl here. But in _my_ deals, even a princess can be a price. For the life of your king, I expect _you_ in return.”

“The princess is _betrothed_ , Rumpelstiltskin. She will be our queen,” Breven said.

“What? She cannot be queen in her own right, so you marry her to that--” he pointed at the unconscious Gaston, “--pathetic excuse for a king to let her rule? What a pity.” But the wide grin on his face belied his words; clearly, the Dark One found Anglia’s predicament to be hysterically hilarious. He gave Belle a sideways glance, “You’ve always been a pawn in their game, dearie. What’s the difference, becoming a pawn in mine, instead?”

Belle stood still, considering his words. “May we have time? To make our decision?”

Rumpelstiltskin bowed, as though he was a proper, courtly gentleman. “All the time you require. Or rather--” Here he wiggled his eyebrows. “All the time that your dying king has left. I won’t be able to bring him back from the dead, dearie. Remember that.” He whirled around, made to leave with a snap of his fingers.

“Wait!”

“Yes, dearie?” He turned back to Belle, interest piqued.

“What is it you want me for, anyway? To trade me off to some royal family or another when one of them happens to need a princess?” Belle remembered the fate of the shepherd’s infant--the story went that he became a part of one of Rumpelstiltskin’s other deals, someone somewhere who needed a newborn son.

Again, that sadistic giggle of amusement. “Oh no. You shall simply become one of my prized possessions. An ornament, really. In addition, my castle needs cleaning every so often. The dust does get rather thick. I’d rather have someone pretty doing it, if I can help it.” And before Belle could reply--undoubtedly with words full of rage--Rumpelstiltskin vanished in a plume of purple smoke.

Belle stumbled to her father’s throne--where that monster had been sitting minutes before--and collapsed. After cradling her head in the palms of her hands, attempting to collect her thoughts, she looked up at Breven. He stood in the center of the hall, beside Gaston. “What do I do?” She was empty of hope, her words a thin whine that echoed through the empty room--her men had already withdrawn, dismissed by Breven after Rumpelstiltskin’s disappearance. “Can I not be queen in my own right, truly? That would fix all of this mess.”

“Except for Gaston,” Breven replied.

Her sigh was heavy. “Except for Gaston.”

“I know you do not love him but--”

“He has the training to be king. And I do not. I am a general and a strategist and a warrior, but know nothing of governing itself. I know.” She stared down at her bloodstained skirt, watched the fabric stain the wood she sat upon. 

_I will play my part in this kingdom, pleasant or not. They will remember me,_ Belle thought. “Will Anglia accept me as queen in my own right, if Gaston dies? With you by my side to help me, of course.”

Breven hesitated. “Perhaps, but only for a short while--they and the rest of the council will insist on your marriage.”

“To whom?”

“To any man young and able enough to sire an heir upon you.” Breven did not soften his words, kept them blunt, for the sake of his princess. She would never bear with flowery phrases, those which glorified a terrible situation, and he would not fool her now. “A man who would become king over you, over your birthright.”

She winced.

“Gaston would be content to rule at your side--the match was perfect. And a blood relative, too, taught at the side of your father--but your father did not foresee this.”

“And--” she faltered. “And can Gaston rule without me?”

“I will not allow it,” Breven said. His calm, soothing tones had transformed into a thunder-like rage.

“That may be our only option, unless you would rather I make myself a broodmare for some land-hungry foreigner.” Her voice was steel, but then melted into softer, more malleable iron. “Tell me the truth. Can Gaston rule without me?”

“Yes. With some help, he can.”

“The people will support him?”

“By right of his blood and--and his sex--yes.”

She smiled, and it was almost weak, if Breven had ever seen weakness from his princess. “Then our decision is made, is it not?”

“A deal then!” Maniacal laughter, followed by a short _pop_ , and Rumpelstiltskin was again in their midst, his arm curled around the throne upon which Belle sat. “You called me, dearie, with your _heart,_ willingly or not. There’s no changing it now, is there?” He giggled, his excitement tangible.

“I have no heart, but my mind is made up, I suppose.” She was cold and brittle and fragile as ice, settled into the path she knew she had to take. “I have no other choice, for the sake of my people.”

He offered her a feral smile. “That’s right.” With his thumb and forefinger, he drew a thin line through the air in front of her. “The deal is _struck_.”

Belle struggled to take deep breaths, pretend that this was ordinary, that she had not just given herself over to most wicked sorcerer in all of the kingdoms, known and unknown. “What happens next?” 

“Show me to our patient,” he said, although he walked straight over to Gaston himself. Breven backed away from the Dark One, moving toward the throne. Belle sat slumped over, hands between her knees. He clasped her shoulder, realized how thin it felt without her usual armor. “You don’t have to do this, my lady.”

“The deal is struck, Breven. And a good thing, too, before I can be talked into a more foolish decision.”

“You really think that what you’re doing is right?”

“For Anglia, yes. I decide my own fate, but more important the fate of my country.” As for herself, Belle was unsure. _At least I will not become a broodmare, at any rate,_ she told herself. Her eyes flew to Rumpelstiltskin, and she stood, walking cautiously toward him.

His hands danced across Gaston’s chest, removing the bandage with care. Gaston groaned in pain, and Rumpelstiltskin quieted him with a mild shush.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

His fingertips crept along the circumference of the wound, paused, and began to pull on what seemed a like a delicate, invisible thread between his thumb and forefinger. “Pulling out the poison.”

“With magic?”

“Aye, dearie. With magic.” Gone was the taunting monster. Rumpelstiltskin’s face was drawn right in concentration, all merriment vanquished by the seriousness of the task at hand. As he tugged farther and harder on this thread of magic that only he could see, yellow pus flowed from the wound like a fountain. The fountain of gore quickly turned black, but at the first hint of red, Rumpelstiltskin abruptly stopped, and the river stopped, too. “Wouldn’t want to waste good blood as he’s got so little of it left,” he muttered.

Gaston opened his eyes. “What--what--?”

Belle stroked his forehead. “Hush. You’re going to be fine.” She tried put herself in his immediate vision, blocking Rumpelstiltskin from his view.

“Ah, let me close the wound now,” he interrupted. With an invisible needle and string--more magic, Belle supposed--Rumpelstiltskin made stitching motions through the air, and she watched as Gaston’s stab wound began to seal itself shut. All that was left was a long, white scar.

Gaston inhaled deeply, as if it was the first breath of fresh air he had had in days--indeed it felt to Belle as though it had been days, instead of mere hours. He took Belle’s hands, cradled them between his own. “What’s going on?”

Before Belle could answer, Rumpelstiltskin spoke. “Your betrothed has just made a little deal to save your life!” He clapped his hands in glee.

“Is that--is that--?”

“Yes, Gaston. The Dark One. Rumpelstiltskin. I made a deal with him to save you.” She was pleading without realizing it, begging him to understand. Belle rarely had to plea or beg for anything, but now she felt she did, for one of the first times in her life. “Anglia needs its king.”

“What did you trade?” He struggled to sit, but Belle tried to push him back down to the table.

“Good idea. Needs his rest.” Rumpelstiltskin leaned over the pair. “We’re leaving soon, dearie. Say your goodbyes.”

“What? Belle? What’s going on?” He pulled her hands to his newly-healed chest, clinging to her like a frightened child. “Belle?”

She tried to stay gentle and calm, for her cousin’s sake. “I’m going with him. With Rumpelstiltskin. That was the deal.”

“No. No, you can’t--”

“A deal is a deal. My freedom in exchange for your life. Anglia needs its king,” she said again, to convince both him and herself. She placed two fingers over his lips. “I have to go now. Rest up. Listen to whatever Breven tells you--he’s your general now. Marry someone sensible and practical--she can be pretty too, if you like. But a woman who can keep your feet planted firmly on the ground. And yes, Gaston, let the grass of Anglia grow. No more burnings.” She bent down. “You will be a good king,” she whispered in his ear, like a soft prayer.

Belle stood, and turned away from her cousin, from what had been her future. She could not bear to look at him any longer, but she could hear the sobs that wracked his body. Her back was to her father’s throne, as well. “Take care of him,” she said to Breven, but refused to look at him, too. “Tell the people of Anglia that their princess loved them, did this for their hope of a brighter future.” She felt as though she was dying, giving her own funeral speech. But before she went to her tomb, she was sure to pick up her sword, sheathe it where it belonged at her side.

Her gaze met Rumpelstiltskin’s, and she stood straighter, head higher. “Shall I change into traveling clothes?” she asked, conscious of her shredded bloodstained gown. _And to think I wore this for a celebration_ , she thought.

“Trust me, dearie. It’s a short trip. And there will be clothes for you at the castle. Any trinkets you’d like to take? Dead mother’s jewelry or an heirloom of sorts?”

Belle shook her head. “No. I’ve my sword. That’s all.”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. “As milady wishes,” he mocked, coming to stand beside her. “Take my hand.”

In those moments, Belle felt as though she was watching herself, rather than inside her own body. Like a spectator, screaming _no_ at this young woman with the sword in the mangled gown, but the young woman could not hear her. She took the hand of the Dark One, noted its warmth, despite its scaly smoothness, like the skin of a snake. 

And they were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle felt a cold rush of wind blowing right through to her bones, and than through those, too, as if she were made of nothing, simply floating senses upon the breeze. When her self crashed back into her body, she was warm again, hot, burning up, as her self struggled to squeeze back inside her skin where it belonged. She opened her eyes, now that she could, and amidst the white dots that hovered along the edges of her vision, she could just make out the drawbridge of a strange castle, lowering of its own accord. When the iron-studded wood slammed down near her feet, she staggered back a few paces, shaking her head and hands to reassure herself that they were real.

Rumpelstiltskin gripped her forearm, kept her from toppling altogether. “The transportation can be a little _jarring_ , if you aren’t used to it.”

She pulled her arm away, brushed her fingers along the hilt of her sword on instinct, for its metallic comfort--grateful she hadn’t lost it along the way. “Oh, why thank you for the warning beforehand,” she said sardonically. Now that her eyesight had cleared, Belle squinted through the darkness. The castle was gray stone, resplendent  in its twisting towers that jutted into the sky and tall, black windows that reflected the moonlight in their glass panes. From the outside alone, Belle could see that it was far taller and more elaborate than the simple hall of her home.

_Home_. She missed it already, the word alone pulling at her limbs and urging her to fight, to murder the fiend on his own front lawn and _flee_. But no, she made a promise. _I shall keep it, for more than five minutes, at the very least_.

He bowed, and she glared. “Right this way, dearie.” He did not touch her again, to Belle’s relief, as he led her across the drawbridge. Belle hazarded a glance into the moat. Water, clear and pristine, no sign of anything foul or monstrous, to her surprise. Rumpelstiltskin followed her gaze. “Stay away from the water. It’ll melt your skin at the very touch,” he said.

The drawbridge snapped to a close behind them as they entered, and torches along the wall lit themselves with purple flame with every step they took forward. The antechamber was wide, but plain, and all of damp stone. There were doors here and there, and Belle wondered where they all led.

“Through here.” He gestured theatrically to a set of wooden double doors at the very back of the chamber, carved with ornate patterns. Rumpelstiltskin allowed Belle ahead of him now, as she pushed one of the doors open. She felt nervous with him at her back, having been taught to always keep an enemy in her eyesight--then again, if he had wanted to attack her, he likely would have done it by now, she told herself.

The main hall was smaller, somehow more cozy, with walls painted a deep, royal red, that peeped out amongst dozens of painting and tapestries, the like of which Belle had never seen in Anglia. The floor were covered in thick, lush carpet that matched the walls, save for some curving designs of golden plant-life weaved into the fabric. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, made of thousands of shards of glass that lit the room. A table of ebony sat in the center of the room, not unlike her father’s--now Gaston’s--war table, save for the fine material. A few cabinets full of jumbled items were scattered about too, and a spinning wheel in the corner, with a mound of straw beside it. The whole place smelled of straw, really, she realized. Fresh straw and hot tea, too.

“So you really do spin straw into gold, then?”

“Didn’t think the stories were true?”

Belle shrugged. “For someone supposed to be all-powerful, I assumed the task of spinning was likely a little foolish.” She leaned against the table, hoped she was making a mess of it with her filthy gown. Then she remembered, _I’ll have to clean it, won’t I?_ and she straightened abruptly. “So, what now?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s dark eyes roamed over her, unreadable in intent. Finally, he wrinkled his nose and waved a hand at her. “A bath, maybe. And a change of clothes wouldn’t kill you, either.”

“Do I have a room? Or shall I find a suitable dungeon?” She felt herself challenging him, or at least attempting to; she couldn’t help it, searching for a reason to fight, to despise the Dark One even more than she already did.

He simply raised his eyebrows. “You’re an insolent little thing, aren’t you?”

“As I recall, our deal required no stipulation about niceties.”

He took a step closer to her, and though he was not a large man, he was taller than Belle. Even so, Belle had felled ogres nearly thrice his size before. There was that tongue again, red and reptilian as he moistened his lips. His breath was hot on her face as he hissed, “That goes both ways, dearie. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and all that, yes?”

Belle pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Can you...please...show me to my room?” But she could not entirely mask the hard edge of her voice.

Still, her attempt at some manner of politeness seemed to please him. He drew back. “Upstairs.” He pointed to the circular staircase in the corner opposite the spinning wheel’s. “And at the end of the corridor. You’ll find everything you need in there.”

Her curiosity overcame her hostility, and Belle asked, “Did you know I would come back with you? Plan ahead, did you?”

“I suppose I had a feeling.” The mangle-toothed grin he gave her almost made Belle cringe.

.....

Belle’s own room was finer than any room of her father’s modest castle--and far, far finer than the room she had lived in, up until this morning. The bed was large enough for at least five people--although Belle knew she wouldn’t be sharing it--covered in a spread of green velvet edged in gold. There were at least a dozen pillows, too, of all shapes and sizes, that she found to be rather impractical. One window, or at least what Belle assumed to be a window, was blanketed by a long shroud that she could not pull open, despite how much she tugged. _That will be something to tackle another day_ , she told herself. Through a door she found a smaller chamber, this one all gleaming white tile, in which sat a glittering marble tub, full of water. Steam rose from the surface, and it smelled of mint and lilac.

“A hot bath,” she murmured. “What a luxury. Must be the magic.”

She unstrapped her sword from her waist, leaned it against the door, wedged underneath the doorknob. There were no locks on either her bedroom door nor this one, and she did not like to take any chances. Once she felt more secure, she shed her boots and dress before she eased herself into the tub’s depths. 

Belle scrubbed away the dirt and blood of her homeland with a certain sadness, realizing she would never feel them against her skin again. The salt-tinged sweat of battle melted away, too. She longed already for the lukewarm baths of home, in her own cold, bare room, even with Gaston there, averting his eyes as he allowed her to order him about. No matter how much finery Rumpelstiltskin’s castle was fraught with, it would never be truly comforting to her, she knew. 

_I can never find comfort in anything but a foe’s blood on my sword_ , she thought, and briefly considered her new _host_. _But that seems unlikely now_.

.....

She nearly tripped over the hem of her new gown as she descended the stairs, so Belle hiked it up high in her fists for the rest of the way, grumbling under her breath.

“Dress fits well then?” Rumpelstiltskin called from below.

“Is _this_ truly the simplest attire you have to offer me?” Belle huffed, gesturing at the foolishly ostentatious garment. Yet, somehow, it managed to be less foolishly ostentatious than the other dresses in her new wardrobe. The gown was the color of sunshine, and left her shoulders bared for the world to see. Its full skirt, thick with tulle and silk, fell far below her feet once Belle released it from her grip. Her damp hair had already begun to dry in frizzy curls that danced along her back, and the expression on her face was absolutely indignant. “How am I supposed to clean your damn castle in _this_? Or _move around_ , for that matter?”

Rumpelstiltskin sprawled in at his dining table, his dragonhide coat slung over the back of his chair. Amusement toyed at the corners of his mouth. “No use in having an ornament that isn’t pretty to look at, dearie.”

Belle bit back an angry retort.

“You’re even nicer-looking underneath that grime than I had imagined. Not your father or mother’s doing, I’m afraid. Perhaps the magic that helped you out of womb did the trick?” He giggled at his own joke, then peered closer at his prize. “Still wearing that sword?”

She had re-belted her sword and sheathe on the outside of the gown, even though she knew it made her look even sillier than the gown alone. “Of course.”

“There’s nothing to fear in the Dark Castle. No need for a sword.”

“I don’t carry my sword out of fear. It’s for protection,” she said.

Like a snake, Rumpelstiltskin rose from his chair and began to slither around Belle, circling her like some sort of prey. “Protection from what, dearie?”

If Belle had ever allowed herself to be prey, she would have cowered before this predator. But Belle was no mouse. “Protection from you,” she said firmly, unwavering. “Should you force my hand. But, as you said earlier, you would like our dealings with one another to be as cordial as we can manage, did you not?”

He paused for a moment, exhaled. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he said, with a hint of disappointment, and slumped back into his chair. “Tea things are in the cabinet behind you. If you wouldn’t mind fetching me a cup.”

Belle nodded. The cabinet opened at her approach, and she rummaged through the clutter of papers, candlesticks, and an assortment of colorful salt shakers until she spotted the porcelain tea set in the very back.. In spite of the dust, Belle could make out a simple pattern of a few blue flowers painted onto each individual item. The teapot, she found, as she retrieved it from the cobwebs, had filled itself with hot water merely at her touch. She wiped the dust from one of the cups on the edge of her skirt--which brought her a mild sense of self-satisfaction--and brought teapot and cup back to the table.

“Do you have any--” Belle began.

“Tea makes itself. Magic, and all that.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“So everything here operates on magic then?” Belle asked, as she poured Rumpelstiltskin a cup of tea. “Not sure why you need me to clean then, if the magic should take care of it itself.”

He cleared his throat. “There are _other_ things you could do for me, if you so object to the cleaning.” His voice was low and sly, and it took Belle only a few second to catch his meaning.

Her face flushed a bright shade of pink, and before she could stop--that warrior instinct--she found herself hurling the teacup--full of hot tea--straight at Rumpelstiltskin’s smirking face.

He ducked, of course, with the grace of a feline, and the cup fell to the floor behind him as the tea bled into the carpet. When he raised his head, his smirk had grown wider. “That was merely a _quip_ , dearie, although I appreciate your virulent response.”

Belle blushed harder now, clenched her hands into fists at her side. “What a comedian you are, Rumpelstiltskin,” she muttered.

He bared his teeth at her, only on the very edge of friendliness. “So glad to amuse you, princess. My tea, now, if you please.”

She walked past him, careful to keep her distance, to retrieve the cup. The carpet was soft and had eased its fall, so rather than being broken into several pieces--as it would have been if it had reached its intended target--only a sliver had broken off, instead. Shrugging, Belle refilled the cup with tea, set it in front of her new master. “There’s your tea,” she said. “Happy?”

He picked it up. “It’s chipped,” he said, though he took a sip from it, anyway.

Belle rolled her eyes. _This is my life now, forever._ “It’s just a cup.”


	5. Chapter 5

For the next few days, Belle passed the time by wandering the castle idly with a feather duster in hand, using it every once and while to sweep away the grime caked upon Rumpelstiltskin’s shelves of artifacts. Even the duster somehow managed to be extravagant, composed of azure peacock feathers. The gown, at least, Belle had toned down, much to Rumpelstiltskin’s chagrin, by using her sword to saw the skirt at her knees. Although the new style left her calves bare, she was simply grateful to walk about unimpeded.

The hallways and doors felt endless, repetitive. Belle could never tell if she had “cleaned” the same room twice--although none of them were identical, neither were any of the chambers interesting, either. In most, seemingly random junk was packed in shelves or scattered across the floor, and in all, the windows were smothered in nailed-down curtains of black velvet, as the one in Belle’s new bedroom was. Even when the candles lit themselves at Belle’s entrance, they all felt dark, haunted with ghosts that she could not fathom. Her father’s seat of power--now Gaston’s--was spare and cold, too, though empty of these creeping phantoms that made Belle’s skin prickle. A little natural light, she considered, would help to scare them off. Just that morning, she had given up on attempting to pull the curtain off in her own bedchamber, and resorted to slicing a hole in it, instead. But these darkened windows, in these rooms that Belle hoped to stay mostly out of after cleaning them, she let them be for now.

The chameleon-skinned master of the castle--his color seemed always changing, never quite settled on one shade or another--tended to stay out of her way, after that first, china-breaking evening. Rumpelstiltskin passed time at his spinning wheel, and sometimes in a smaller side chamber, brewing potions made of fearsome ingredients from little glass vials. The only time Belle had made the mistake of entering, Rumpelstiltskin had been crouched over a large pewter cauldron, carefully measuring out a silvery substance to add to a sweet-smelling concoction while he murmured a recipe under his breath. _Three drops of unicorn blood_ , Belle heard him say, though with the creak of the door he turned to her. They exchanged glares, and Belle shrugged before leaving.

_One less room to clean_ , she had muttered under her breath.

Occasionally she served him tea, although never when he was at work with the potion-brewing, or poring over a book at the dining table--only at the spinning wheel, when she would not be interrupting some spell-weaving of vital importance. In a little plot she had created for herself, Belle always made sure to give him the chipped cup, in the hope that he would cut a lip or finger; she was sorely disappointed every day that he did not. Belle also made two meals a day, which hadn’t yet begun to improve, as Rumpelstiltskin never failed to note. But she was used to soldier’s rations, and didn’t mind her own flavorless porridge, coarse brown bread, or slightly-overcooked poultry. In fact, since it irritated Rumpelstiltskin, she even got some measure of enjoyment from it. They took their meals in the same room, at the same time, although not together, never together, aside from their brief exchange of barbs.

And in between the monotonous housework and the lack of company, Belle felt herself grow bored within the confines of the sorcerer’s castle, and her muscles tightened every day with disuse. Much to Belle’s surprise--the last thing she’d expected to suffer at Rumpelstiltskin’s hands after she accepted his deal was tedium. 

But when Belle stumbled upon the master’s chamber, far across the castle from where she lived--and the only other room that seemed to be livable, complete with bed and wardrobe--she felt her curiosity finally pique. Every surface was coated in a thick layer of dust, disguising whatever color this room had been decorated with as a dull gray, a far cry from the clean, vibrant greens of the chamber she could barely take ownership of yet. But Rumpelstiltskin’s room seemed utterly un-lived in--even the bedcovers were stiff with what could have been years of accumulated grime. At least the rest of his estate seemed somewhat taken-care-of. 

With some hesitation, Belle pulled open the wardrobe door, and squinted her eyes against the onslaught of dust that attacked her. But when the cloud cleared, it revealed pristine piles of clothing, magically protected from the wasting of time. _He ought to do this to the whole room_ , Belle thought, reaching for a pair of trousers, hoping to find something she could fit into, even if it belonged to _him._ As she unfolded them, she realized that their size--very small, as if for a child--was too small even for her build. She rifled through the wardrobe, but all of the clothes were like that, apparently tailor-made for a young boy. Towards the back, the clothes tended somewhat larger, for an adolescent, but they were still too small for Belle.

“Where are the clothes he wears as a grown-up?” Belle said with a sigh, having gotten her hopes up at the prospect of attire alternative. But then that was a new quest, wasn’t it, to occupy her mind and body with more than cleaning and cooking. A small quest, albeit, but something to do all the same.

.....

A mundane, easy quest, as it turned out, but certainly not fruitless. After prowling through a few more rooms, Belle returned to the kitchen for a bit of leftover bread to snack on. And lo and behold, in a corner beside the cast-iron stove sat a basket, full of laundry that Belle was presumably meant to wash. But Belle snickered, and after closing the kitchen door and bracing a small table against it, unlaced the already-loose ties of her gown and pushed it off her body, and quickly slipped into the items she’d picked out of the basket. 

Already she felt lighter, like she could breathe easier, although still bare somehow without a suit of mail.

Despite Rumpelstiltskin’s own slight frame, his shirt of crimson satin managed to hang loose on Belle. The leather trousers, however, clung to her despite their size, the constrictive fabric sticking to her thighs like a second skin, and Belle slid her boots on over them.

She strode back to the dining hall, the new shirt billowing out behind her, hefting her sword in her hand. Its weight felt especially satisfying in comparison to the feather duster she had been forced to use the past few days. The feather duster she left abandoned in the kitchen.

Waist-high pillars jutted out from the floor here and there around the room, each showing off some artifact--objects precious enough to show off to any unlikely visitors, but not precious enough to hide away entirely. One held a ruby-studded goblet of gold, heavier than Belle’s sword. Careful not to break the goblet, Belle moved it from its pedestal and set it on the dining table instead.

She searched over her shoulder, to make sure Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t lurking somewhere behind her, watching. But Belle was alone, so she set her teeth, raised her sword, and took a fighting stance facing the empty pedestal. A short opponent, yes, but it would do. Her knees were bent, balancing her weight upon the balls of her feet.

_One--two--three_.

And Belle pounced, swinging her sword at the immobile enemy, striking it over and over again in different places, feet flying beneath her. Every time the sword hit stone, a jagged ringing pierced Belle’s ears. She paid it no mind, though, paying closer attention to the thrill in her blood at the movement, the very action of striking an opponent--even a fake one.

And then, the distinct clearing of a throat behind her.

“Dearie, I don’t believe any of your duties involved cross-dressing or beating the furniture.” An already-all-too-familiar chuckle followed Rumpelstiltskin’s pronouncement.

Belle spun, sword poised to strike. And there he was, lurking and watching just as she had dreaded.

“Need a sparring partner?” A blade appeared in his hand, glittering with fresh magic.

A feral smile spread across Belle’s face, monster or no, because yes, of course she needed a sparring partner, and even the Dark One would do. She feinted toward his left, and when he moved to block her, sprang upon his right instead. Their swords met with a resounding _clang_ , and Belle’s grin grew wider at the realization that her foe had some knowledge of swordplay. Something in her mind clicked, and he was no longer the Dark One, and she was no longer his captive. But he was an enemy, and she needed nothing more than to feel her sword pressing into him. Her sword became an extension of her arm, a fourth limb, as she blocked out everything else.

They danced across the room, rather evenly matched as they each managed to parry each other’s blows, always keeping the other’s blade away from any life-threatening organs. He drove Belle back toward a wall, and for those moments she let him have the upper hand, acting as though she could barely parry his attacks, let alone begin an offense. It was always useful to allow one’s opponent to grow arrogant, particularly when they thought themselves up against the so-called weaker sex. 

“Come dearie, I’m not even using any magic,” he taunted, as Belle took another step back.

But when she was nearly cornered, Belle’s movements doubled in speed, and it was her turn to push Rumpelstiltskin backwards, while he struggled--or at least that’s how he appeared, Belle reminded herself, refusing to fall for one of her own tricks--to fend off her blows.

Although Rumpelstiltskin did not slow in speed or intensity, Belle could feel herself overpowering him--she could feel his sword-arm shake harder every time their weapons connected.

The next time it trembled, Belle quickly withdrew her sword where it had crossed his, and slammed the flat of it into his forearm as hard as she could.

And even Rumpelstiltskin had not been expecting that, and he watched the magical sword fall from his weakened grasp, and evaporate into the air before it could hit the floor. When he looked up at his opponent, his eyes flashing with pleasant surprise, he felt the tip of Belle’s blade press against his throat, threatening to tear through skin and draw blood.

And Belle was all warrior, all Anglian princess who needed to be on a battlefield fighting ogres, not trapped in a dusty castle rummaging through a demon’s dirty laundry for a simple pair of trousers. She could almost taste his blood on her sword and she _needed_ it.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” she asked him in a hiss, gripping her hilt even harder, though a hint of uncertainty plagued her tone.

Despite his predicament, Rumpelstiltskin smirked. “Honor and promises and deals and all that, I suppose.” He waved a hand flamboyantly. “But I don’t break my deals, dearie, whether you like it or not.” And suddenly he was gone, and Belle’s sword cut through only air.

“Besides.” There was a purr in her ear, and Rumpelstiltskin’s arm snaked around her waist, hot against her skin through the thin, borrowed shirt. “It takes a little more than a mortal blade to kill me, dearie.” Belle began to twist out of his grasp, her elbow raised to slam into his groin, as Rumpelstiltskin easily plucked her sword from her hand. Having attained his prize, he released her.

As she turned to face him, panting and red-faced, he waved the sword at her as though she was a naughty child. “Now, now, I think I’ll be taking this from you. Remember our agreement to be civil? Still...” He ran a long-nailed fingertip along the length of the blade. “You’re a better swordswoman than I expected. The Anglians tend to exaggerate their fighting prowess, but you’ve managed to surprise me.”

Belle ignored the compliment, raised her chin defiantly. “What are you going to do to me?”

His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “ _Do_ to you? For holding your little toy against my neck? You’re good with a blade, but you wouldn’t have been able to kill me with one. Rest easy, dearie. I won’t lose any sleep over your silly little game, and nor should you.” His gaze traveled from Belle to her sword, and back again. “I’ll offer you your trinket back as a peace offering, perhaps, if you manage to get some real cleaning done.” A moment of consideration, and Rumpelstiltskin added, “And you could learn how to cook, though I am near-certain that is an impossibility.”

“And you’ll be my sparring partner?” Belle folded her arms. “There’s no point in getting my sword back if I have to resort to fighting the furniture again.”

“Deal.” And when he held out his hand, ready to seal the deal as though they were equals, as though Belle was a person, and not just a prize, Belle shook it firmly. As the deal was sealed, Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re a bloodthirsty little princess, aren’t you?”

Aware she was under his intense scrutiny, Belle let him wait for his answer. She sauntered to the dining table and took her perch there. “You profess to know so much about Anglia. Don’t you know that the women are sometimes more bloodthirsty than the men?” She pursed her lips. “We don’t take well to having our lands invaded by ogres.”

Rumpelstiltskin continued to seem intrigued, and this made him look more man than beast, Belle thought. He possessed a sharp intelligence, she realized, that revealed itself in the way he steepled his fingers as he thought over her words. Finally, he said, “And why not make a deal to magic them all away?” Underneath the question, Belle knew, was a different one.

_Why save the heir and give away your kingdom to become the captive of a demon_?

But, content to ignore that question for now, Belle answered him, “There’s no honor in using magic to defend my lands. If a king or a commander cannot save his lands with the strengths of his leadership and his people, then he is no king or commander at all. Had we made a different deal, one to destroy the ogres, there are those who would have seen it as weakness, as an inability to save ourselves. And your magic would not have saved us twice.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, conceded her point. And while he found himself wishing to learn more about the finally-reconcilable housekeeper, he knew better than to interrogate all at once. Belle, on the other hand, seemed to take no interest in him besides testing what little freedom she could earn.

Ah, but that was for the best, he concluded.


End file.
